


Teach Me Tonight

by wintergrey



Series: The Blood-Dimmed Tide [10]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1940s, Bar Room Brawl, First Time, Friendship, Loyalty, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-08
Updated: 2015-05-08
Packaged: 2018-03-29 13:00:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3897277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintergrey/pseuds/wintergrey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"By the time he’s ready to sleep—Mom made up the couch for him already, sheets and pillows and blankets just like a real bed the way she’s done for years—he’s resolved. He’s going to just do and be whatever Bucky needs. If he’s hurting, Bucky’s probably hurting worse, and that means there’s no time to be selfish or to wallow in his own feelings. Steve’s body may not be strong but he’s always made up for that with the strength of his heart and his mind. He can do that now, too.<br/>#<br/>In the light of day, Bucky feels like an idiot. In the light of every day after the night he tells Steve they need to stop, he feels like an idiot. An idiot with a broken heart—and he doesn’t even know why it feels that way. Steve hasn’t gone anywhere. Nothing’s changed but the headlines on the papers that say America is going to join the war by the New Year."</p>
<p> <i>Brooklyn, Fall of 1941</i></p>
<p> Song title from <a href="http://www.traditionalmusic.co.uk/1940s-top-songs/teach-me-tonight(anne-shelton).htm">here</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Teach Me Tonight

**Author's Note:**

> ** Life Lessons:**   
>  [Start With The ABC Of It](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1706531)   
>  [Down to the XYZ Of It](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1719581)   
>  [Teach Me Tonight](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3897277/)
> 
> * * *

“Mom?” Steve is finishing the dishes while his mom sits at the table, hemming one of her uniform skirts where the stitching came away at work. The tiny apartment is humid with other people’s laundry hung from lines and in doorways. Mid-week, it’s a maze of men’s shirts and trousers and the occasional brassiere or girdle and dress. “Can I ask you something?”

Mom looks up from her sewing, then turns the radio down. “I’m not sure I know more than you do about much under the sun, young man, but I’ll do my best.”

Her little smile is a rare thing on her worn face. Steve hates how tired she looks, even in the soft yellow light of the single bulb in the kitchen. Her hair, the same colour as Steve’s, is wrapped around rollers and secured under a scarf. It doesn’t matter whether the war comes or not, or how many jobs she works, a lady doesn’t just leave her hair undone.

“It’s about people.” Steve dries a teacup before putting it back on its saucer that waits on the tea shelf. “So, you probably know. Why would a guy who likes someone—a girl,” he adds, just in case, “a whole lot not want to be with her?”

“How do you know he likes her a whole lot?” Mom’s needle is moving again when Steve looks over his shoulder but the moment he looks away he can feel her eyes—a shade of blue lighter than his—on the back of his neck.

“It’s not me,” Steve says quickly, which as soon as he’s said it makes it worse and he’s not entirely sure how to keep going. He just does, pushing through the lie. “It’s Bucky and I know him. But instead of going after her, he’s… not. It’s not how he is with girls, with other girls. You know Bucky.”

“I do. He was always such a boy when you two were little. Like a dirty little dog, that one. Scrappy, smelly, loud. You two couldn’t have been more different—still are.” Mom sighs, then coughs a little. Just once, but every time Steve hears it, it makes him tense. Working in a TB ward brings the risk of infection. “I never worried about you when you were with him, I knew he’d take care of you.”

Steve doesn’t want to talk about that, about him and Bucky before. “It’s not like him. He’s usually the fun guy, you know.” He doesn’t want to make it sound bad. “Everything’s easy with him.”

“Love is hard for some people, Steve. It takes a brave heart to love someone, it scares people.” Mom’s sewing scissors rattle briefly on the table as she picks them up. “People are scared of getting hurt. Good people are scared of hurting other people, too.”

Maybe a couple weeks ago, Steve would have wondered how love could hurt anyone. Now, his love feels like something breaking apart in his chest every time his heart beats.

“Bucky wouldn’t hurt anyone,” he says. It’s not a contradiction. It’s not Bucky that’s hurting him, it’s what’s in his own heart. “And he’s tough, he’s not scared of things.”

“I think you might overestimate your friend, Steve. Because he’s your friend,” Mom says gently. “I know you think the world of him. But not everyone is as brave as you are. Did you say Bucky was talking about enlisting?”

“He says it’s what everyone expects him to do.” Steve dries the last plate, then puts it in its place. While the sink drains, he puts the kettle on. “What does that have to do with it?”

“Maybe he’s afraid it’ll make it harder.” Mom sounds strained as she puts her chair back to stand. She’s awful pale and Steve wants to help her but he knows if he acts like he notices, she’ll just try that much harder to hide it, and he doesn’t want to make more work for her. If something’s really wrong, she’ll know, she’s a nurse. “Would you have an easy time leaving someone you loved?”

“I guess not.” Something in Steve’s chest buckles at the realization that Bucky will probably go off to war, for real. And him—he wants to go, he’ll be damned if he doesn’t try—he doesn’t have a chance unless they scrape the bottom of the barrel. He’ll just have to keep trying until they take him.

He’s always let himself imagine that they’d be together out there, one way or another. He could drive, he could manage a gun. Mom comes over and puts her hands on his shoulders, then kisses his forehead. Steve should be a grown man but he still wants to lean into her and cry.

“Bucky’s a good boy. He’s trying to do the right thing.” She puts her fingertips under Steve’s chin and tilts his face up so he has to look at her, like she used to do when he was little. “I’m sure he just doesn’t want to leave someone he loves and, even more than that, he doesn’t want to not come back to them. War is a terrible thing, Steve, and the damage it does doesn’t start or end on a battlefield.”

Mom’s advice, as usual, makes everything better and worse at once. Steve thinks he understands now but that doesn’t change the reality of things. He makes Mom her tea and sees her off to bed. On nights she doesn’t have to work, he likes to stay with her—not even the temptation of private time with Bucky touches that.

Because he can’t sleep, he irons shirts for a few hours, windows open to let in the chilled night air so the clothes can dry faster. It helps some to know that Bucky’s out there, just down a few streets Steve can walk in his mind, lying in his bed by the open window. Their corner of the city feels like a giant house and every apartment in it a room of that house.

By the time he’s ready to sleep—Mom made up the couch for him already, sheets and pillows and blankets just like a real bed the way she’s done for years—he’s resolved. He’s going to just do and be whatever Bucky needs. If he’s hurting, Bucky’s probably hurting worse, and that means there’s no time to be selfish or to wallow in his own feelings. Steve’s body may not be strong but he’s always made up for that with the strength of his heart and his mind. He can do that now, too.

#

In the light of day, Bucky feels like an idiot. In the light of every day after the night he tells Steve they need to stop, he feels like an idiot. An idiot with a broken heart—and he doesn’t even know why it feels that way. Steve hasn’t gone anywhere. Nothing’s changed but the headlines on the papers that say America is going to join the war by the New Year.

“You gonna get your ass down to the recruitment center?” Dad looks over the top of the paper to fix Bucky with that questioning look that makes Bucky feel like a clam being pried open. “If not, I got a job you can do at the garage. One of Bill’s boys signed up. Come with me today if you want.”

“Eat your breakfast, Bucky,” Mom says. “You should go with your dad. We still don’t know what’s going to happen—you shouldn’t just jump in before we know for sure.”

Bucky takes a bite of toast but it doesn’t taste like anything. “Yeah, I’ll come.”

“You’ve gotta let the boy go some day, woman,” Bucky’s dad calls after her as she retreats into the living room to listen to her radio drama. “If the Jerries are what it takes to cut the apron strings, Bucky, I’ll thank ‘em before you go spit in their eye for me.”

“Yeah, I know, you’d go if you could.” Bucky’s heard it before, and he doesn’t doubt it. He drains his coffee while there’s still some warmth left in it. “Meanwhile, I’ll make sure the garage doesn’t go short. Unless Bill’s got a spare to replace the one that left.”

“Only girls,” Bucky’s dad says with a snort. “They’ll put me in my grave before I see a woman work a shift with me. He’s got a few pretty ones, though. Maybe one of those’ll do you.”

“Dad.” Bucky forces his eggs down, dumps some ketchup on them to make it go faster. If he doesn’t eat he’ll be sorry. The bus garage is a hell of a hard day’s work.

“I know, you got more of ‘em than you can date in a week. Date, hah—we called it something else when I was a kid. Bill’s girls are the marrying kind, anyway, and don’t you forget it.” Dad pushes his chair back and gets up with a belch. He’s already in his boiler suit with the name Buchanan on the chest. “He’s got two about your age, though. You should see if one of ‘em likes you enough to go out with Steve, instead.”

“Dad!” Bucky’s going to have indigestion at this rate—from irritation, not wolfing his food.

“What? He’s a good kid. Not his fault he looks like he’s twelve. He’s better marriage material than you, that’s for sure.” Dad stacks his dishes at the sink. “I’ll grab you a uniform. Get that food down.”

Bucky practically grew up at the garage when he wasn’t at school. He and Steve used to goof around on the empty busses or help out cleaning tools. It was fun, then, to play at being grownups. Now, wearing his dad’s boiler suit that’s still too big for him, Bucky feels like a kid again—and not in a good way. At least the place is familiar and so is the work of changing tires and running parts from the storeroom to the floor.

“You coming?” His dad wants to know after work.

“I was gonna meet Steve.” Bucky doesn’t know what he’s going to say to Steve, hasn’t seen him for a few days because of his mom’s swing shifts.

“Catch a ride over there, it’s going past the factory.” His dad points to a bus pulling out, holds his other hand out for Bucky’s uniform. “I’ll take that home. No sense coming by and your mother getting her claws into you, all that ‘growing boys need to eat’ bullshit. You’re both as grown as you’re gonna get. You boys have a good time.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

Bucky takes off at a sprint and hops on the empty bus as soon as the doors open. He sprawls in the front seat to watch the city go by. What am I gonna say to Steve?

He doesn’t want to say anything to Steve. He wants to grab Steve by the shirt front and kiss him on his soft, red mouth, then pull back to see Steve smile. It’s everything he shouldn’t want but he can still taste Steve’s kisses when his mind wanders.

The world is a harder place to be in than Bucky ever imagined. He’s always had it kind of easy. Both parents. Enough money to get by. Not real smart like Steve but smart enough—smart mouth, at least, his dad would say. Pretty good looking, if he goes by what people tell him. Perfect, if he goes by the way Steve looks at him.

He wouldn’t be him without Steve. A guy could do anything in this life with someone like Steve to believe in him. Bucky doesn’t want to throw that away just because he’s scared. Steve deserves better than that. Steve deserves for him to man up.

When the bus lets him off in the factory district, he’s resolved—he knows what he has to do. Put the smile on and laugh through the pain of not holding Steve’s hand, not kissing him, not making a life with him. It wasn’t anything that was ever going to happen, wasn’t even something he knew for sure he wanted until he kissed Steve for the first time. They’ll find a way. Make do. After the war, they’ll make it work.

Bucky doesn’t have to wait long for the shift to let out. Steve is easy to find in the crowd, a small bright spot slipping through the other workers. Bucky’s heart jumps as Steve comes loping across the street, dodging slow-moving traffic and ignoring the blare of horns. He’s actually smiling when he hops up onto the curb in front of Bucky.

“Hey, you’re early.”

“Yeah.” Bucky’s so relieved that Steve looks okay, looks happy, he can’t think of anything smart to say. “What’re we doing?”

“I dunno.” Steve puts his hands in his pockets and starts ambling toward their neighborhood. Bucky keeps pace with him automatically, shoulder brushing Steve’s. “What’d you want to do?”

Everything about it is so normal, so familiar, that the ache in Bucky’s chest lets up some. He can’t hold Steve’s hand but this is good enough. Steve understands. Anything is good enough when they’re together.

#  
  
It’s one of those days that feels like the end of something. They cross the park behind the baseball diamond where they ate ice cream last weekend. The wind is cold today, the sun is setting behind the familiar graph of the skyline, brown leaves clutter the grass. Bucky finds a baseball that escaped collection, its red strings unravelling and its skin curling back to reveal the core.

“Yo, Rogers, catch,” he calls, knowing full well that Steve can’t catch any better than he can fly.

Steve laughs and has a go at it anyway, running a few steps to get some distance because Bucky’s throws sting like crazy on the off times Steve gets his hand on one. Bucky lobs the ball his way in a slow arc, making it easy for him—Bucky always tries to make things easy for him.

To his surprise, Steve manages to keep his feet and hands working in concert long enough for the ball to burn, as he expected, against his palm. He has to lean out a little far for it, though, and the long grass grabbing at his work shoes conspires with gravity to pull him down. Steve has been falling down on the regular since he first managed to stand up and so he just goes with it, keeping hold of the ball.

A warm weight hits him as he goes down; Bucky tackles him with an arm around his waist. It’s half-play, half-rescue as Bucky twists to hit the ground first and break Steve’s fall and then they’re rolling in the grass. Bucky’s laughing, Steve can feel it through his back as he lies across Bucky’s chest and he can’t help laughing as well. The sensation of being wrapped up in the safety of Bucky’s body winds itself down into Steve’s bones and his guts, so deep he knows he’ll remember this feeling forever.

“You shoulda dropped it,” Bucky says, almost right against his ear. “You have to look out for yourself, man.”

“You know how often I catch something,” Steve retorts, wriggling to get up even though he wants to lie there until the purpling sky goes black and starry. “I’m not letting it go, even if it hurts me.” It’s only when he’s offering his hand to Bucky to help him up that he realizes he’s not talking about the baseball at all.

“That’s why you scare me.” Bucky lets Steve help him up and holds on to him just a second too long, his hand warming Steve’s. “You’re gonna get yourself killed one of these days.”

“I’m still here.” Steve’s hand is cold now. The other one, wrapped around the baseball, still stings. “If I have to be a coward to stay alive, I don’t want to live. I’ve been scared enough times to know that isn’t living.”

“Just… for me.” Bucky plucks grass out of Steve’s hair and brushes it off Steve’s shoulders, not looking him in the eye. He’s sad about something and Steve wants to kiss him on the mouth to take the pain away. “Take care of yourself.”

“I will.” Steve tucks the ball away in his pocket so he can return the favour, sliding his fingers into Bucky’s hair to capture a curling brown leaf clinging just above his ear. They’re not kissing but if anyone saw them… what they are, what they are to each other, would be obvious. “Anything for you.” And, because he means it, he changes the subject. “I’d kill for a sandwich from Shapiro’s. We could go to Limey’s after.”

“A Shapiro’s sandwich?” Bucky gives Steve an arch look. The crooked grin he puts on is almost convincing. “You still can’t eat a whole one of those.”

“So, you’ll eat the rest.” Steve starts walking because he meant what he said, he reminds himself—anything for Bucky. “If anyone wants to know how you got so much bigger than me, you can tell them it’s because you eat half my food.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault you have a stomach the size of a shot glass.” Bucky bumps against his shoulder, lightly, on his way past. Light as the breeze, he leaps from a park bench to a trash can to the top of a maintenance bunker that’s used for tending the ball field. He sprints the length of it and leaps off into the sky, turning a full somersault before landing on his feet. “Hurry it up, I’m hungry.”

Shapiro’s is a Jewish deli on the edge of the neighborhood. It’s little more than a hallway that runs from the street to the back alley. You don’t sit down and they’re not open Friday night to Sunday and Papa Shapiro kicks you out if you order something he doesn’t like making. Still. Best sandwiches in town. Rye bread, mustard, pickles, corned beef, all wrapped in a neat waxed-paper square.

Bucky’s right, Steve can’t eat a whole one, but that’s okay. Bucky works harder than Steve does and is half again his size. They eat perched on a stoop down the street while Bucky shoots the breeze with some of his friends from high school basketball team. And, of course, Steve was the towel boy. Steve had to be rescued him from the linen cart half a dozen times before Bucky and a couple of the guys here had words with the rest of the team and it stopped.

Steve’s happy sitting here at Bucky’s feet, out of the way, handing over the other half of his sandwich after only two bites of it. It’s nearly dark out and the cold is creeping but his back is warm where it’s pressed against Bucky’s calf.

Things break up when everyone else heads for the pictures, leaving Bucky to haul Steve to his feet because his legs have gone stiff from sitting in the cold after a long day at work. Limey’s is just a block over in the direction of home, a shoddy little dive of a pool hall that’s run by a Russian, no matter what the name says. Steve and Bucky used to deliver papers for the owner when they were kids and he ran the news stand down the street, it’s why he’s been letting them slip in and play—and drink—since they were old enough to shave every day; or, at least since Bucky was old enough.

It’s habit that they don’t go in by the front, picking their way through the trash-cluttered alley to duck in by way of the poker game going on in the back room. Steve holds his breath on the way through, the air is grey with smoke. Looks like the usual suspects around the table, except one guy Steve doesn’t recognize who’s notable only for his slicked-back pitch-black hair and leather jacket. He looks a little too tough for this block, more like he belongs down on the waterfront.

“Boys,” Limey says, in his thick Russian accent. He doesn’t look up from his cards. “Everything good?”

“Hey, Limey,” Bucky says cheerfully. “Everything’s good.”

The bar isn’t much brighter but it’s a little less smokey. Bucky grabs a couple beers in spite of Steve hissing at him that he’d rather have a soda. There’s not much to him and he doesn’t drink much, he gets drunk too fast. He racks up at the only free pool table, furthest from the bar, while Bucky takes care of that.

“Just one.” Bucky comes back and hands Steve a cool brown bottle with a Rheingold label. The stuff is cheap—almost no one wants to buy German—and good. “I promise, I’m not going to get you drunk.”

“You always say that.” Steve never quite remembers that the second beer is his downfall—it gets him just drunk enough to think he can handle a third and next thing he knows he’s puking in an alley while Bucky laughs—caringly.

“Hey, I don’t get you drunk," Bucky says, wounded. “The beer gets you drunk. I just buy it for you.”

“Semantics,” Steve mutters, then takes a drink of his beer. It’s too bad it goes to his head, he loves the way it tastes.

“What?” Bucky looks startled—the word is unfamiliar and sounds a bit scandalous.

“It means shut your smart mouth and break.”

This is the one place in the world that Steve is really better at physical things than Bucky. He’s good at darts and even better at pool. Bucky doesn’t mind losing, though. That’s one of the reasons it’s so easy to stand Bucky being better than him at everything else. Steve is certain Bucky is happier when Steve wins than when Bucky does himself and how could Steve do anything but reciprocate? Bucky loves it when Steve wins, when Steve beats him or anyone else he’s the first person to tell Steve how awesome he is.

The truth is, Steve’s been holding back at how good he is for years and beating Bucky anyway. He could clear the table from the break most games. But then he wouldn’t get to watch Bucky play. Now, more than ever, it’s hard to just watch without looking. Before he could feel some nagging interest that he kept shoving down deep where it wouldn’t affect him. Now, he’s just praying his body doesn’t give him away as Bucky leans over to take a shot.

God, Bucky is beautiful. Steve isn’t sure whether it’s worse to be watching him like this with the light on his hair and his lashes and his lips or from the other side where he’d be watching Bucky’s jacket ride up and his shirt pull out of his jeans as he swings his hips while he’s contemplating the angles. He knows Bucky so well he can imagine every view and it’s not helping. He drains his beer without tasting the last of it as Bucky sinks the next shot.

“I’ll get two more,” he offers. He grabs Bucky’s bottle on the way to the bar. He just needs to step away to clear his head. Limey’s isn’t quite crowded but it’s busy. That it’s early isn’t stopping people from getting loud, raucous laughter and shouts rise from a few too-full tables in the middle of the room. The accents aren’t all local and Steve spots a few uniforms among the revelers.

It takes a couple tries to get anyone to notice him but he gets the attention of someone he doesn’t recognize behind the bar. The guy looks about to turn him away until Steve hands over the empties. Fair enough—it’s not uncommon for people to send their kids up to the bar for a round during the day. If Steve ever had any hope of looking older than he does, he wouldn’t be nearly so chafed about it.

“I waited for you,” Bucky says as he returns, leaning on his cue in a long-suffering pose. “Forever.”

“A whole lifetime, eh?” Steve wiggles one of the beers at him. “Must have been terrible. Hurry up and miss your next shot so you can have a drink to wash away your tears.”

“Who says I’m gonna miss?” Bucky turns to look at the table, pouting, and Steve’s right back where he was when he decided he had to walk away the first time, damn it.

“You’re gonna miss,” Steve says, after a quick scan. “Trust me.”

“You wanna bet?” Bucky lines up a shot that Steve knows he could make but Bucky always pulls to the left when he has to get his left hip up against the table. Steve steps out of the way of one of the guys at the next table so that guy can take a shot that he, also, is going to miss—but mostly because he’s so drunk that he smells of vodka even from three feet away.

“Depends on what I get when I win.” They’re flirting and they have to stop. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, they really have to stop this. Steve can hardly breathe for the look Bucky gives him. He takes a desperate drink from his beer.

“You’ll think of something.” Bucky takes the shot and misses by a hair’s breadth. “Damn it.”

“Good thing you didn’t bet anything you didn’t want to lose.” Steve offers him a beer.

“What’s mine is yours anyway.” Bucky knocks his bottle against Steve’s before taking a drink. It’s just a drink but his wet lips are nearly pornographic when they’re sealed around the brown glass, and the way the line of his throat moves as he swallows makes Steve wants to lick it even right here and right now. He’d get them killed. “Sink that six and I’ll buy the next round.”

Everything looks and sounds sexual. A hazy pink filter of lust fills Steve’s eyes and ears and it tastes like the memory of Bucky’s hand on his dick and Bucky’s tongue in his mouth. He takes another drink—half the beer is already gone, where did it go?—and eyes the shot. That’s going to be a bank shot but he’s sure he can do it, even with half the blood from his head sunk down below his belt and causing trouble.

“Deal.” Steve sets the bottle aside and contemplates the shot. He’s short, which makes it harder, but he manages without the rake. Once he’s almost sure he’s got it, he makes the mistake of glancing back over his shoulder.

Bucky’s watching him avidly and it’s a shock, not just that Bucky thinks of him that way but because it’s so naked and Bucky probably doesn’t even know. Steve is so sure he’s more careful than that, he’s more careful than Bucky about a lot of things because he has to be. When he’s stupid, he’s stupid on purpose. Even through the smoke and shadows, the predatory glint in Bucky’s eyes is unmistakable.

Steve has to stop looking. He forces himself to look away, exhales and takes the shot as soon as his eyes focus on his cue again. He makes it with a thump and clatter that are barely audible above the din.

“Guess you’re buying,” he says, schooling his voice to steadiness. He’s so scared and turned on at once, all he can hope to do is drown it in beer. He empties the bottle far too fast and forces himself not to care. “Though someone who isn’t your friend might think you were trying to get them drunk to finally win a game.”

“Your virtue is safe with me,” Bucky says as he takes the empty bottle from Steve’s hand.

“More’s the pity.” The words just come out, slipping past his filters under cover of all that alcohol and lust.

Bucky’s almost turned away but his head whips back around when Steve speaks. The look he gives Steve is something indescribable. It’s not hurt, it’s not anger, it’s something else entirely, it’s the look of someone’s resolve coming undone completely. Steve regrets his words immediately because whatever Bucky’s struggling with, he wasn’t going to add to it. He steps back and hits something, or something hits him, an elbow between the shoulderblades.

“Sorry, sorry,” he mutters, turning with his hands up.

“Watch it, ya little pansy.” The slur and the spittle, Steve expected. The shove, though, takes him by surprise and he crashes into the pool table hard enough to set the balls rolling.

“Hey, that’s not—” He’s going to say not necessary as he pops up again in spite of the pain in his lower back, then the guy swings a huge fist right at his face. Steve gets clipped but years of practice have made the bob and weave instinctive. Boxing lessons never taught him how to hit but they sure taught him how to duck.

Naively, he still thinks he can defuse this when someone grabs his wrist and launches him toward the crowded tables in the shadows. He’s ready for the kicks and shoves, not the laughter, the splash of beer in his face, the rattle of words that hurt more than the physical abuse—fag, pansy, baby, nancy, queer. He’s not ready for the way those words cut through his resolve and leave him bleeding inside. His body can take the pummelling, but his heart isn’t nearly tough enough, not tonight.

For the first time, he doesn’t fight back, he sinks down into it like he’s drowning, vaguely aware of blood in his mouth and the floor under his back. He’s buried under the future, a whole future of this moment right here—living it or waiting for it—stretched out in front of him like a hell instead of a life. He’s never despaired like this before, never wanted to cry in the face of being defeated, but he feels broken in a place he can’t put back together.

Suddenly, he’s lifted and swung around, set on his feet so fast his head spins. He staggers, grabs something for support—the back of Bucky’s jacket.

“Let me do this.” Bucky’s voice is thick with rage and, even if he could bring himself to act, Steve wouldn’t disobey. He’s aware of the pool cue still in Bucky’s hands. “Get back.”

Steve stumbles back, catches himself on their pool table, knocks over an abandoned bottle of beer. For years any smell that reminds him of beer-soaked felt will bring him back to this night. The bar is roiling with conflict, Limey’s voice is a train-whistle of Russian fury as his men rumble out of the back room and into the fray.

Steve’s never really seen Bucky fight. He’s seen Bucky run a guy off or shower him with disdain until he slunk away, but he’s never seen Bucky fight. This is the first time in his life he’s ever thought of Bucky as dangerous to anyone.

There’s no flailing of fists, no spitting insults. It’s the control that makes Bucky frightening. The pool cue cuts an arc through the air and the thick end of it takes a man—the man who started all this—in the jaw. Blood and teeth fan out in the light under the next pool table, then the man’s head hits the rail with a thud. Bucky kicks him full in the chest to drive him back and Steve swears he can hear bones breaking over the din.

Bucky doesn’t stop there, he ducks the punch from the next guy, drives the pool cue up into the guy’s gut and the fool goes down retching only to meet Bucky’s knee coming up into his face and then the pool cue again in the side of the head to drive him all the way down. Two men trip over the body as Bucky backs up a step to give himself room to swing again.

One man with a lick of sense dives for Bucky’s right arm and hangs on, taking the pool cue out of the equation for a moment. The next guy charges in and instead of fending him off, Bucky grabs him by the shirt front, yanks him closer, and head butts him so hard his lower face disappears in a gout of blood from his shattered nose. When Bucky lets him go, he drops like a rag doll.

Moving like he’s dancing, Bucky turns toward the guy that’s got his arm, steps into him, slams him on his back on the pool table like they’re lovers. Steve can see Bucky’s face clearly just then. It’s completely still, set in grim lines, and his eyes are unfocused as though he’s seeing some other way, through his skin and his hair. Without looking, Bucky finds the fallen beer bottle with his free hand and shatters it over the other man’s head. Blood blackens the wet felt as Bucky pushes away with a grunt, shoves the pool cue behind him like a sucker punch into yet another man’s gut.

They just keep coming, it’s as though people are piling into Limey’s instead of taking off. Bucky flicks the bottle across one guy’s face so that he reels back when the blood flows, throws the bottle after him and it shatters on the man’s forehead. Now he’s got both hands on the cue again, ready to meet the next man—a brute in Navy blues. But before they meet, a chair shatters across the sailor’s back, dropping him.

The guy Steve didn’t recognize in the back room drops what’s left of a chair and takes a punch straight to the head without flinching. He doesn’t even lose his cigar. Casually, he grabs his latest assailant by the belt and collar to use him as a battering ram, clearing an arc between Steve and the back hall. He meets Steve’s eyes, then jerks his head that way.

“You boys best run on,” he drawls around the cigar. “Or someone’s gonna get killed and it ain’t like t’ be either one of ya. Getcher friend,” he orders Steve, casually cracking a guy’s head back with his elbow, then tossing the next fool to run at him as far as the bar. “He ain’t stoppin’ unless ya say so.”

“Bucky!” Fear spurs Steve into action. Lunging forward from behind the pool table, he grabs Bucky’s wrist. He expects to have to drag Bucky out of here but touching him, skin on skin, is like breaking a spell. Bucky turns to look at him, focused on his face, seeing him. “We have to get out.”

“Go.” Bucky gets an arm around him and then they’re moving, hopping broken furniture and bodies, slopping through beer and glass and blood and worse. Bucky takes a random punch on the shoulder, shelters Steve with his body against the push and jostle of a knot of wrestling men. The narrow back hall funnels the sound of police sirens and a gust of cold night air over them. “Out and right.”

Steve bursts out into the night and goes right like Bucky wants him to, not looking back. The pool cue clatters into a dumpster behind him when Bucky ditches it. Steve’s lungs are burning, he wants to cough, but he keeps pushing, sure he hears shouts catching up with them. Left will take him into the dark of alleys and loading docks, places he and Bucky know how to navigate in their sleep, so he goes that way.

When he lags, Bucky catches up with him and grabs his hand, drawing him along. Steve is trying to find the breath to beg Bucky to stop when suddenly they’re pounding up a short set of stairs, dodging posts, and then stumbling into a dark, deep alcove where trucks back up for loading. Steve’s back hits a heavy steel door with a thud, Bucky’s hands land on either side of his head, and he can feel Bucky’s breath on his cheek.

“Are you okay?” Bucky wants to know just before his mouth is on Steve’s temple, his cheek, his throat—it’s half kissing and half like he’s inspecting Steve with lips and teeth and tongue, feeling and tasting to know for himself.

“I’m fine.” Bruised but fine, better than fine, even with his lungs rattling and the night air clawing all the way down into them with each inhalation. It’ll pass. He grabs the back of Bucky’s neck to hold on, to keep Bucky close. How could he be anything but perfect right now, drunk on beer and adrenaline and the realization that Bucky was fighting to protect him just now and it was terrifying and incredible at once. “I’m not hurt. You?”

“Don’t hurt,” Bucky mutters into Steve ear while he’s licking and biting it. He grinds his pelvis against Steve’s and he’s so hard it makes Steve gasp.

“Jesus, Bucky.” He’s not protesting, he doesn’t know what he’s doing except arching against Bucky’s body, letting Bucky catch one of his wrists and then the other to pin them over his head with one hand. Bucky pushes up under Steve’s shirt with the other hand, slides it around and down the small of his back and under his waistband to grab his bare ass and pull him closer. “Don’t stop.”

Steve has more to say but Bucky’s kissing him now, reckless and messy kisses—Steve can taste blood, probably from both of them, and it makes him moan. Bucky ruts against him, his weight pinning Steve against the steel door, making desperate noises. There’s no mistaking how much Bucky wants him and that’s as much as a thrill as watching Bucky ruin men to keep him safe.

Bucky pulls his hand out of Steve’s jeans but it’s only to fumble them open at the front, button and then fly. He stops kissing Steve and that gives Steve a chance to ask him what he’s doing, if only Steve could make the words. The air is icy on his hot skin when Bucky peels his boxers down to bare his erection and his balls but Bucky’s hand is warm and gentle on him a second later.

“Mine.” Bucky’s hand on Steve’s wrists is tight, holding him up when his knees threaten to give as Bucky strokes his dick. “You’re mine. Tell me again,” he mutters, kissing Steve hard between words. “Tell me not to stop.”

“Don’t stop. I don’t want you to stop. I’m yours. I want this. You.” Suddenly, Steve has words again. No euphemisms, no dancing around it, the world is too fast and too violent to cut corners with how he feels. “I want to be your lover.”

“You are.” Bucky kisses Steve hot enough to set fire to steel. “It’s only you for me, Steve,” he says thickly. That feels like a contradiction when Bucky lets go of him and pulls back, leaving Steve feeling lost but then Bucky’s on his knees and Steve doesn’t understand why until Bucky’s mouth is on his dick.

Steve ends up clawing the door behind him, paint chips catching under his nails, to stay upright. He can’t breathe, he can’t speak, he locks his knees to keep from collapsing. Bucky pins him to the door, hands on his hips, and pushes down until Steve’s dick hits the back of his throat and then he pulls back to do it again.

Bucky’s mouth is so hot and desperate, it’s the desperation that drives Steve out of his head. He’s got his hands in Bucky’s hair now and he doesn’t remember how, just that Bucky’s hair is so soft and warm and Bucky moans when Steve clenches his fingers in it. Bucky lets him move so that Steve’s hips rock of their own accord and he looks down. In the near-dark he can just make out their bodies against the night, the black glitter of Bucky’s wide eyes as he looks up, the thrust of his own dick into the needy, sucking heat of Bucky’s mouth.  
  
Seeing that is too much. Steve babbles out some kind of warning seconds before pleasure washes over him in a wave like he’s never felt before. Orgasm shakes him to the core, he knows when a wail escapes him but he can’t hear it. He expects Bucky to recoil but Bucky takes him deeper until he’s coming down Bucky’s throat and feeling Bucky’s hot breath against his belly.

Steve tries to pull Bucky up, still shaking after he comes, but Bucky takes his time. He licks Steve clean with long, hot curls of his tongue, then tidies him up carefully, settling his boxers back in place and doing up his fly. Only then does he let Steve pull him to his feet. He pulls Steve into his arms and gives Steve the kiss he’s looking for. Steve can taste himself on Bucky’s tongue, kisses him until he can’t anymore. It’s not unpleasant, just a little strange.

“We’re going to my place,” Steve says once he pulls away, forcing his voice to steadiness. It’s the only place to go, his mom is working all night and they can be alone. He has to say this before he loses his nerve, before they lose this moment. “We’re going there and I want you to—” He doesn’t know how he’s going to get the word out but he’s brave, damn it, and so he does. There’s no other way to say it. “—I want you to fuck me.”

Bucky’s eyes widen, probably as much at the language as at the notion, then he nods slowly. He doesn’t laugh, doesn’t argue. He simply cups Steve’s shame-flushed cheek in one hand as though Steve is something precious and kisses him once more. It’s not lustful, it’s soft. Worshipful.

“You’re the boss,” Bucky says, and it’s not a joke the way he says it. He smooths Steve’s sweat-damp hair back from his forehead, then meets his eyes. “I’d go anywhere for you.”

After tonight, Steve believes it like he believes the sun will come up in the morning. He’s ready to get on with the rest of his life—with Bucky—whatever it looks like. He swears he’s never again going to lose faith like he did back in the bar, never. Despair isn’t an option as long as Bucky’s waiting on the other side of whatever dark night of the soul Steve’s got to survive. He just needs to get back to Bucky, that’s all he’s ever needed.

“Let’s go.”

#

They step out into a different world. The city is quiet for the moment, dark and sleepy. There’s no one to see them so Bucky puts his arm around Steve’s shoulders and Steve slides his arm around Bucky’s waist without hesitation, rests his golden head on Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky kisses Steve’s hair, it smells unmistakably like him even under the haze of smoke and beer still clinging to the fine strands.

“You were amazing,” Steve says quietly, after they’ve walked for nearly two blocks down blessedly deserted streets. “I mean, not back… you were amazing about that, too, I didn’t expect at all, I didn’t even know you knew… I mean before, at Limey’s.” He ducks his head the way he does when he’s blushing furiously and Bucky can’t help laughing at him.

“I thought you knew I was amazing at everything,” he teases. Remembering the fight gets him in the gut, though, makes him hot all over.

“Everything but pool,” Steve sasses.

Bucky has no choice but to push him into the shadows and up against the metal gate blocking a store entry to kiss him. Steve meets him eagerly, arms sliding around Bucky’s neck while they kiss. Bucky still hasn’t gotten off but he’s waiting, he wants to wait. It’s so hard, he’s so hard, every little thing Steve does turns him on tonight. It’ll be worth it, though.

“I didn’t know you could fight like that,” Steve says breathlessly, when Bucky has to pause to remember that he really doesn’t want to come in his jeans from rubbing up against Steve’s slender body while they kiss.

“Yeah, well.” Bucky tries to shrug it off. “I like you thinking I’m a good guy, okay?”

“I know you.” Steve takes Bucky’s face in his hands when he says it, looks up into his eyes. He has this way of talking sometimes that’s like he’s casting a spell—making something real just by how much he believes it. If anyone can do something like that, it’s Steve. He sounds like that right now. “You’re the best person I know, Bucky. Even if you forget, I won’t.”

“If I’m the best person you know, the world is in some kind of trouble.” Bucky’s throat is tight with sadness and he looks away. What he’s going to do without Steve when he goes off to war is beyond him.

“Trust me.” When Steve talks like this, it’s like he’s the one who’s bigger, bigger than Bucky, strong enough to take on the world. “You just can’t see yourself the way I do. Hey, who’s the smart one here?”

“You.” Bucky nudges his nose against Steve’s. “I do trust you. You’re the smartest guy I know.”

“If I’m the smartest guy you know, the world is in some kind of trouble,” Steve teases, laughing. “But thanks. I gotta make up for the rest of me somehow.”

“I like the rest of you.” Bucky steps back, drawing Steve out onto the sidewalk with him and wrapping an arm around him. “A lot.” He can’t think about that too much. “We get back to your place, I’ll show you how much.”

“I don’t get that,” Steve says honestly, leaning into him as they walk. “I mean. There are a lot of better looking guys than me out there—kind of everyone—and that’s just the guys. There’s girls, too. You like girls.”

“Yeah, but it’s not the same. It’s like enlisting. It’s what you do, right? Girls are nice and they feel good and all that but you’re you.” Bucky can’t explain it better. “You make me a better guy, Steve. I’d be a real jerk without you. And it’s not because you make me feel bad. It’s because I don’t want to let you down. I’ve felt some kind of way about you for a long time. You’re under my skin.”

“I like it here pretty well.” Steve rubs his cheek against Bucky’s shoulder. “Can’t see leaving.”

“Even if I have to go?” The very thought makes Bucky’s heart slam against his ribs in protest. He breathes through the pain, distracts himself from the moment by scanning the street to make sure they’re still alone. Everything is quiet as it should be late on a work night.

“Do you know that everything in the universe has a gravitational field, a pull?” Steve’s voice is so calm and certain, it eases the hurt in Bucky’s chest. “And everything else in the universe is pulling back. Everything connected to everything. You can’t go anywhere that you don’t have some kind of pull on me, and me pulling you back. Not even if you left Earth. Universal Law of Gravitation. It’s not just some science, it’s one of the laws of the whole universe.”

Bucky doesn’t get science the way Steve does, didn’t even take physics. But he believes Steve and he can feel that thing Steve’s talking about. That pull. The pull that means sometimes they don’t even have to touch, or be in the same place, for him to know Steve’s out there somewhere.

“Can’t argue with science—well, you can,” he says, laughing. Steve always knows how to make him feel better.

When he checks over his shoulder and sees the flash of car lights coming, he has to step away from Steve. It doesn’t hurt so much, knowing that there’s some kind of gravity that holds them together. Hands in pockets, they walk the rest of the way to Steve’s apartment building. It’s a lot colder when they’re not touching. There’s science for that, too. He follows Steve in and up six floors worth of rickety stairs to Steve’s door. It’s painted blue, with a little American flag pinned up under the number 16.

“If I go… when I come home, we’ll work it out, okay?” Bucky says as Steve unlocks the door and lets them in.

“You know you don’t—” Don’t have to do the right thing.

“Hey.” Bucky closes the door behind them, then gets a hand on Steve’s arm before he can get away. There’s not much choice as to where to go—the apartment is one room, one bedroom, and one bathroom—but Bucky needs Steve to hear him. “This isn’t some right thing, Steve. It’s what I want.”

“We can’t. It’s okay, Bucky. I mean, we’ll see each other and everything, we’ll always be friends. We have now.” Steve’s not sad, like he’s already dealt with all this. But if there’s anyone in Bucky’s life who’s used to making the best of a bad lot, it’s Steve. He turns away to shuck his jacket and hang it up. “But you’re right. Some things, you just do. You make do.”

Steve’s been making do too much of his life. Bucky finally really grasps how Steve’s spent night after night alone while Bucky went out and chased girls and lived, did things Steve couldn’t manage, couldn’t keep up with. Things Steve wouldn’t ask to do because it might diminish Bucky’s fun for him to be there.

Steve isn’t just speaking about the future, he’s saying that because he’s already doing it right now. He’s making do. Bucky was about to say that Steve will think of something, that Steve’s the smart one, but now he clamps his mouth shut on the words. He will think of some way for them to have a life together his own damn self because Steve deserves it.

When Bucky hangs his jacket up he sees the left sleeve is soaked with blood at the shoulder and spattered down to the cuff. Not his blood. Steve turns on a lamp and Bucky can see the red turning to black that won’t ever come out. He could have killed someone tonight, hell he might well have, and he wouldn’t be sorry. Seeing that reminder of what he’d do for Steve just makes him more resolved.

“You’re all bloody,” Steve says quietly. In the low light, Bucky can see him clearly for the first time since the fight started. He’s one to talk. He’s bruised, his mouth and his jaw and his cheek, blood all down his shirt.

“Jesus, Steve.” Every other thought goes out of Bucky’s head. He’s full of that icy rage that took him over back in the bar and now he’s just sorry he didn’t do worse and to more people. “Your face. Let me…”

He remembers Steve on the floor, someone’s boot catching him in the side and rocking his surrendered body like a doll’s. He’d seen people hurt Steve before but he’d never seen anyone make Steve give up. That had done it for Bucky, snapped that thing in him that kept him from hurting people.

Next time Bucky blinks he sees his own hands pulling Steve’s shirt off over his head. He pushes Steve back into the tiny bathroom where the light is better, hands all over Steve’s narrow shoulders, his delicate birdcage chest. Bruises are surfacing under Steve’s white skin, red turning to black and purple already.

“No, no, no,” he mutters, as though it’ll change anything. He’s down on his knees now and he doesn’t know why until he kisses the worst of the welts on Steve’s side, kisses it again and again as if he can actually kiss it better. “Oh, baby, no, no. I’m so sorry.”

Steve’s not a baby but there’s no other word for how Bucky feels about him right then, like he’s the most important thing in the world and Bucky’s to care for. He didn’t stop this, didn’t stop it soon enough. He got them into it, too. Maybe if he hadn’t made them stop the other night they’d have gotten it out of their system and not been caught wanting each other so desperately.

“I’m okay.” Steve’s hands are so gentle in Bucky’s hair. “I’ve had worse.”

That’s horrifying. Impossible. Bucky’s gut twists, all he wants is something to hurt because that, at least, he knows how to do.

“No more.” He looks up Steve’s body to meet Steve’s gaze. “Stop letting people hurt you. Not tonight, I mean all the other times.”

“Only when it’s the right thing to do.” Steve kisses his forehead, then his mouth. “I promise.”

Steve is going to break Bucky’s heart forever some day and Bucky’s going to let him because it’s Steve and Bucky’s helpless—he could never bring himself to diminish Steve by keeping him from doing the right thing. No matter what the consequences are. If all Bucky ever does is let Steve be Steve, everything he can be, the world will be better for it.

“I really want to take you to bed,” he says past the pain in the back of his throat. He doesn’t even know why he’s sad unless it’s possible to be sad already over something that hasn’t happened yet, something he can’t even imagine much less name. “But first I want to make sure you’re really okay. And not drunk. I know you.”

“You think I’m drunk after all that?” Steve runs his fingers through Bucky’s hair, then tugs a little. Add one more thing to the list of what makes Bucky want to rip Steve’s clothes off. “How much of a light weight do you think I am?”

“Enough of one to get us into a bar fight after only two beers,” Bucky answers, batting his lashes as he stifles his laugh against Steve’s belly.

“Jerk.” Steve tugs Bucky’s hair a little harder this time but thankfully he steps back before Bucky can try getting Steve’s pants off with his teeth. “I’ll start some coffee and make something to eat, you start getting cleaned up. I’m not giving it up for some guy who stinks like cheap beer and bad cigarettes.”

“Fine.” Bucky grumbles as he gets to his feet. He’s sore all over but it’ll pass. “You’re worse than a girl about this.”

“I didn’t hear you complaining back in the loading dock.” Steve bumps past him, nearly knocking him over onto the toilet seat. “But that could have been because your mouth was full.” He gives Bucky the wickedest grin over his shoulder, in spite of his bruises, and it’s everything Bucky can do not to grab him right there and have him on the living room floor.

Instead Bucky starts peeling his clothes off to wash—there’s no shower, he’ll just wash in the tub. Steve wants him cleaned up, he’ll get cleaned up, teeth to toes. When he’s ready, he comes out of the bathroom, towel around his waist, to the smell of toast and coffee. Suddenly he’s aware of how hungry he is. Steve’s in the kitchen, still shirtless but scrubbed clean of his own blood, buttering toast.

“Don’t bother with a plate.” Bucky takes the toast out of Steve’s hand as he wraps one arm around Steve from behind. “Mmph. Hungry. Coffee smells great,” he adds with his mouth full. Steve makes really good coffee.

“You’re naked.” Steve sounds slightly dreamy. He leans back into Bucky’s chest with a sigh, skin to skin. They’ve never touched this much before and it’s bliss.

“Just about.” Bucky offers him the last of the toast and reaches for the coffee instead. “Eat. You want to wash?”

“I should,” Steve doesn’t sound motivated. Still, he takes a bite of toast. “I smell like bar.”

Bucky could go sit down but he doesn’t want to. He can’t imagine anything more perfect than this, half-bare Steve cradled against him with in one arm, drinking coffee, eating toast, just like they’re ordinary people. With the place to themselves, it’s possible to imagine that this is their life, almost-married life. He’s going to find a way to make that work for them.

“How come you said no before?” When he’s done eating, Steve turns his head enough to rub his cheek on Bucky’s bare chest. “Back in your room.”

“Because I didn’t want to leave you.” Bucky makes himself take another drink of coffee before his throat tightens up too much. “Not that I do now. I’m not as brave as you are.”

He gives up and puts the coffee down to wrap his other arm around Steve, holding on, and drops his head to hide his face in the curve of Steve’s shoulder. There’s no one to see him but his own rippled reflection in the upper half of the tiny window over the sink, above the lacy curtains, but he can’t even stand that much scrutiny.

“It’s okay.” Steve’s hand is tender on the back of Bucky’s neck.

“What if I enlist and I don’t come back?” The words break out of Bucky’s chest in spite of him. His eyes are burning and wet, it’s humiliating, but the questions and the pain are only getting stronger the longer he keeps them inside. “If I don’t come back, you have to find out from my parents, you don’t even get a telegram. If I’m gone, no one’s even sad for you and you have to be alone with that. You never get to say I loved you and I never came home. That’s all I could think.”

“Bucky.” Steve leans his cheek against Bucky’s hair as he strokes the nape of Bucky’s neck. His voice is steady like a stone for Bucky to stand on in a sea of hurt and fear. “I’m not scared of that. If that happens, I got more already than most people ever do in their life. I got to love you. If I get to be with you, I won’t regret anything.”

“Okay.” Bucky feels like he can breathe a little better. He nods slowly, then kisses Steve’s shoulder. “Go wash. I’ll make up the bed.” He remembers seeing the folded sheets and blankets stacked on a pillow at one end of the couch.

“Going,” Steve says. “And I’m sober as a priest, I promise.” He’s in the bathroom before Bucky’s brain catches up.

“We’re Catholic,” he reminds Steve through the closed door.

“Fine. A Protestant one,” Steve calls back. “Happy?”

“Yes.”

Bucky turns down the lights before he makes up the couch. It’s pretty comfortable for a couch, all one piece instead of separate cushions, which would make sleeping miserable. Still, he always feels better knowing Steve’s safe and comfortable in the bed next to his. In their way, they’ve been living together for years. Bucky tucks the sheets in neatly, adds the blankets and the pillow. There’s a spare of each under the end table, he puts the blanket over the back of the couch and shakes out the second pillow.

It feels a little strange to be here without any parents, but good. Maybe his dad is right about the apron strings. Surely there’s some place a couple guys could live without getting odd looks or worse. Something in his memory scratches at him, the echo of something his dad kept saying about one of his aunts, his dad’s sister—that she was always looking the other way but at least it kept the marriage going. Maybe someone else out there would look the other way. They’d make it work somehow.

“You need anything else?” Steve turns off the bathroom light as he comes out, wrapped in his thin plaid bathrobe. He still looks boyish but, with his hair slicked back, Bucky can see the strong lines of his face that hold hints of maturity and masculinity.

“Just you,” he says, without any artifice. “You’re all I need.”

“Take that off, then.” Steve gestures at the towel around Bucky’s waist. Bucky fumbles with it, his coordination shattered by the way his body reacts to Steve telling him what to do and being so confident about what he wants. He drops the towel, trying to remember how to breathe. “Let’s go to bed,” Steve says quietly.

Bucky slides between the sheets as Steve slips his robe off and lets it pool by the couch. He’s so slender, hollow belly and sharp hips and bony knees and Bucky wants him so much. Steve’s cock is half-hard in the shadows cast by his body, Bucky remembers what it felt like in his mouth; longer and thicker than he’d expected but it wasn’t like guys were proportionate that way. He pulls the sheet and blanket aside for Steve to follow him into bed.

There’s barely room for both of them and Bucky wouldn’t want it any other way. Steve fits against Bucky and over him, straddling Bucky’s hips while they kiss, and he’s all bare and open for Bucky to touch. Steve’s skin is silky and damp, he smells clean and sweet, and his kisses are cool and minty. Eyes closed, Bucky learns him all over again; every inch of his familiar body is new under Bucky’s hands.

It’s so different this way. Bucky’s hands don’t judge, don’t compare. There’s nothing about Steve that isn’t completely beautiful when Bucky sees him this way, through his palms and fingertips. He loves the sweep of Steve’s collarbones, the ripple of his ribs, the curve of his back, his spine like a row of stepping stones for Bucky to follow down to the cleft of his ass. He could look at Steve like this forever if Steve would let him.

There’s nothing passive about Steve, though. His hands are in Bucky’s hair, tilting Bucky’s head back so he can kiss down Bucky’s throat. The tug is intoxicating and then the sting when Steve bites him shakes Bucky out of his trance with a rush of sensation. The low noise in his ears is his own groan of need.

“Don’t make me wait.” It’s his own damn fault, Bucky knows that. He was the one pushing Steve away last weekend.

“You had your chance.” Yeah, Steve’s going to make him pay for that. Steve kisses him on the mouth, laughing. “See, I’m still not sure you want this.” Now Bucky’s laughing too, he can’t help it.

“Could you be less of an ass about this, please? I said I was sorry.” He grabs one of Steve’s hands and puts it on his dick—and, oh God, it feels so good, cool and gentle against how hot he is. His voice is thick and his laughter fades as he forces the words out. “Does that feel not sure to you?”

“I wouldn’t know. This being my first time and all.” Steve sits back on his heels and flashes Bucky that wicked grin again—that is the hottest thing in the world as far as Bucky’s concerned.

He has no idea where that spark was hiding all this time but if he’d seen it before they wouldn’t be having this conversation because Bucky would have jumped him long ago. Steve’s hand moving over Bucky’s dick feels amazing, puts some action behind the promise of the wicked glitter in Steve’s eyes. When Steve looks down, the grin fades to be replaced by a look Bucky knows better, loves more—this blend of curiosity and admiration that Steve has that makes Bucky feel like something special, like a piece or art or something you’d put in a museum.

“I’m sure.” Bucky can’t keep his voice steady. He hardly knows what he’s saying, he just hopes he doesn’t screw it up. “I’m so sure. I meant what I said, I only stopped because I didn’t want to hurt you or make your life worse. I didn’t know what it felt like to really want someone until I let myself want you. I’m not just sure, I feel like I’m gonna die I don’t have you. My heart is trying to get to you through my chest, feels like I can’t breathe, I—”

Steve kisses Bucky hard enough to take his breath away for real. Whatever he said, it must have been right. He pulls Steve down to him, hands splayed over Steve’s back. Steve’s shoulder blades are almost sharp against Bucky’s palms, like Steve used to have wings there that he shed a long time ago. Steve’s mouth on his is pure heat and want, though, human as Bucky.

“I want you to fuck me.” Steve’s taut voice shatters any angellic comparison’s Bucky’s fumbling brain is trying to assemble to keep itself busy enough that he doesn’t come just from Steve’s hand on him. “I won’t make you wait.”

Bucky opens his eyes—he didn’t know he’d closed them—to see Steve leaning over him, one hand braced on the arm of the couch. His drying hair falls in shimmery gold wisps over his cheek and brow, his mouth is so red and sweet in spite of the bruises, his eyes are so blue. Then he moves over Bucky, hand still on him, and the head of Bucky’s dick is pressing into him, into slick heat and tightness.

“God, Steve.” Bucky clutches at Steve’s hips, gasping. “Oh, my God.” His feet slide on the smooth sheets, he grabs the blankets instead of Steve so he doesn’t mess this up by being stupid.

This is actually happening. Somewhere in his head he didn’t think it was real up until now and now it is. Steve’s breath comes short and fast, his gaze is unfocused but locked on Bucky at the same time, and Bucky’s so afraid of hurting him but the noise he makes as he sinks down on Bucky’s dick is pure pleasure.

Steve lets go of him and moves slowly, letting Bucky deeper into him every time he sinks back down. Bucky doesn’t dare move, doesn’t breathe, just watches as Steve’s face gets more flushed by the moment and his eyes get so wide. He listens for the catch in Steve’s inhalations that turn into moans when Steve breathes out. Then Steve settles down all the way, sets his free hand on Bucky’s chest, and finally really looks at him.

“Are you okay?” It’s all Bucky cares about, no matter how good this feels. Steve sits back, rolling his hips, and nods slowly. Yes. Now Bucky cares about how damn good it feels.

He’s had sex before but he’s never seen anyone enjoy it—enjoy his body and their own body—like this. That makes it so much hotter, the way Steve shivers when he shifts just right and Bucky’s dick touches him somewhere inside that feels amazing, or Bucky thinks it must because Steve’s eyes flutter shut every time and he makes a noise that sets Bucky’s nerves on fire with wanting him.

“You feel good,” Steve says thickly. He reaches behind him to set his hands on Bucky’s knees, Bucky plants his feet so they don’t slide when Steve leans back on him. He rides Bucky that way, eyes half-closed, biting his lip. The friction, his tightness and heat, leave Bucky whimpering. His hands clench uselessly in the blankets, he doesn’t want to grab but he can’t keep his hips from rocking under Steve to get more of him.

Bucky finally gets hold of himself enough that he trusts himself to touch while Steve moves over him. The smooth ripple of Steve’s ribs, the dip of his belly, the hollow of his back when he arches to get Bucky deeper are a new landscape this way. There’s a fine trail of golden hair from Steve’s navel to the soft, pale wisps at his groin. Bucky follows it with his fingertips, Steve’s eyes open wide to focus on him again as he reaches the base of Steve’s dick.

“That.” Steve nods, eyes fixed on Bucky’s. “Touch me.” He sounds drunk with pleasure, Bucky wants to make him sound like that night after night.

Bucky strokes him gently with one hand, the way Steve gets fully hard with his touches makes him shiver when he remembers how it felt to suck Steve off. He cups Steve’s balls in the palm of his other hand, his fingers accidentally brush where his dick is pushing into Steve, silky-tight flesh slightly slick with lubricant and the familiar heat of his own shaft. The noise Bucky hears is his own groan as he processes what’s happening and his balls tighten with the rising need to come.

“Steve.” Bucky’s voice sounds distant and desperate in his ears. Steve is watching him avidly, has been since Bucky started touching him, he realizes. “I’m… I need…” He doesn’t know how to say it, never talks during sex, it’s just a thing you do and it’s over, it’s not like this.

“I know.” Steve takes Bucky’s hands in his and kisses them. It feels like punishment until Steve pins them into the pillow on either side of Bucky’s head and leans forward, using their clenched hands as an anchor as he moves faster. “I love you, you know,” he says, looking down on Bucky. It’s in his face, in his eyes, in the curve of his mouth, in the bruises he wears because he got caught loving Bucky in public.

“I know. I love you, too, so much.” Bucky rocks under him, too far gone to keep himself from trying to get deeper. He needs to come so badly and he can’t, not yet, and he doesn’t know why. “Steve, please.” His back arches and he whines desperately.

“It’s okay.” The kiss Steve brushes across Bucky’s mouth is so hot, he’s so hot, and then he’s moving harder, faster, to match the rhythm Bucky’s body is demanding. Steve’s ragged breathing and moans are music in Bucky’s ears. Bucky locks his eyes on Steve’s face, as desperate for what he sees there as he is for release.

Steve looks startled—almost frightened—when his body clenches around Bucky’s dick, he cries out wordlessly, then come splashes up Bucky’s chest. He loses his rhythm, grinding onto Bucky’s dick as he comes, and that’s what Bucky’s body is waiting for. Steve.

Bucky means to be quiet, means to be gentle, but none of that matters anymore as he falls apart under Steve. He arches up off the couch with a howl, heels and shoulders sinking into the cushion, then collapses as waves of pleasure wring him out. He’s still rocking up into Steve long after he’s spilled himself completely, writhing until he’s too sensitive and whimpering but unable to stop.

“Bucky.” Steve’s hands are on his face and hair, soothing him, Steve is kissing his mouth and his cheeks and his forehead. “Shh.”

“Oh, God, I’m sorry.” Fear and shame well up. Bucky tries to push Steve back so he can see Steve’s face. “Are you okay, I’m so—” He doesn’t get to finish because Steve is kissing him again.

“I’m good.” Steve sits up just a little so Bucky can see his flushed face and bright eyes and dishevelled hair. “Better than fine. Perfect. I’m not gonna break, Bucky.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t know that for sure.” Bucky pulls Steve down onto his chest and buries his nose him Steve’s soft hair. Steve doesn’t protest, just cuddles up against him. “What with all the sex you haven’t had.”

“I guess we’ll have to find out.” Steve sighs contentedly, wriggling a little. Bucky is still half-hard inside him and so sensitive that every little move Steve makes sends fresh sparks of pleasure through him. It’s good and too much at once, Bucky has to wrap his arms around Steve to keep him still.

“I am not doing that empire, emp—”

“Empirical testing?” Steve wriggles again and tightens up around Bucky so that Bucky groans inadvertently. Damn well doing it on purpose, Bucky has no doubt.

“That. About whether or not I can break you by having sex with you.” Bucky smacks him on the ass in hopes of stopping either the wiggling or the line of thinking.

“You’re passing up an excuse to have lots of sex with me?” Bucky can hear him pouting. “I must have done that wrong.”

“Shut up, you idiot.” Bucky rolls them over and sorts them out so that they’re side-by-side and Steve is tucked up between his body and the back of the couch. Bucky can look down at him this way, cradled in the crook of his arm, and meet his eyes. “You did it right. We did.” Bucky brushes Steve’s hair back from his damp forehead. “It was perfect. Better than anything else.”

“Good.” Steve swallows hard, looking serious, then he nods. “I want to be good for you.”

“Then you should practice.” Bucky kisses him on the mouth, slowly. “With me. So we keep being perfect together.”

“I will.” Steve loops his arm around Bucky’s neck to pull him down for another kiss. “Don’t be scared anymore, okay? We’ll be fine.”

“I believe you.” Bucky did; tonight it felt as though anything was possible—even them being together forever. “We’ll find a way to make it work, to stay together, somehow.”

“Doesn’t matter where you go,” Steve says, and he’s got that look again, that tone in his voice. Like he’s writing new laws of the universe beside that one about gravity. “It’s you and me, Bucky. I’m with you to the end.”

 

 


End file.
